Archive for November, 2011

Let’s keep one thing straight, here … if my Louie-Louie Lad really wants to sit in that big black papa chair and scrunch himself up and try to bounce that thing along on our rug … well, all I can say is, go to it. Won’t work, but hey, it’ll give him lots of exercise and maybe even clean up some of the mess left by our great granddaughter. Sounds like a plan to me.

Otherwise, get a grip, Big Louie … I love Christmas but I do not want to hear Jingle Bells in October. Nor do I want all the stores lit up like fire flies so much before Thanksgiving that Christmas presents are more like July presents. I don’t mind a little early … I start thinking about what to get for my Lad sometime around the day after Christmas. But I don’t want anyone to tell me what I should be looking for long before it’s time for me to look.

It’s supposed to be a birthday, for goodness’ sake. Can’t we at least try to make it a little less hip and a lot more happy?

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room…and pretty soon I’m going to have to move it. I’ll try to remember to stand up first. It makes My Lady Wonder Wench frown when I just try to hop it over to one side while I’m still sitting in it. I have to move it because we always put our Christmas tree right between my chair, and the big stereo speakers our son Eric the inventor built for us a few years ago. We don’t put up our tree till Christmas Eve, and it may be a bit early to be thinking about it right now, but that seems to be all the stores ARE thinking about. Some of them have had Christmas decorations up since just after Labor Day. Some people resent the fact that the Christmas shopping season seems to start a week earlier every year. I really don’t mind. I like Christmas. People say, “Why can’t we have Christmas all year long.” Well the way it’s being started earlier and earlier every year, by somewhere around 2020, it WILL be with us all year long.

The weather outside isn’t frightful just yet. But it’s kind of dull and dreary…and un-smiley. So it’s neat that Santa swashbuckles in here with a big red suit, green, gold and silver wrapped presents, and happy music made by symphony orchestras with choirs, rock bands, and even chipmunks. And there’s no ducking away from him to go suck your thumb and put the back of your hand to your head, and cry in your beer…because “He sees you when you’re sleeping…he knows when you’re awake….” no matter where you are, he’s going to pop up, and lay a ho ho ho on you if you give him a chance. I know things are tough this year, but no matter how tough things may be…Santa’s price is right…so you may as well give him a shot.

Santa is lots of things to lots of people. But he pretty often gets a bum rap. He gets the blame for all the tasteless, crass, loud tv commercials for “The Biggest Sale Of The Year.” He also has to take the fall for “Taking Christ out of Christmas.” I think he deserves better. I think it’s time to thank Santa, because that stuff is not his fault.

Santa is a connector. And to me, that’s the real meaning of Christmas. Connection. Every year…no matter how old you are…he connects you to who you were when you got your first electric trains… a sled…or a bike under the tree…or your first Christmas kiss. And most important for me, he’s the connection to that distinct Christmas Eve “tuck you – in – so – Santa – can – come – with – his – reindeer – and – presents” feeling that my parents gave me. It was so safe…and happy…and real. And Santa helps you pass all that along to your kids…every Silent Night.

Of course, “He knows when you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.” Not a bad reminder for us “Louie-Louie Generation” folks. Sometimes we slip. We tell terrible Christmas puns like, “As Adam said to his wife the day before Christmas, “It’s Christmas, Eve.” I know. That’s awful. Even worse is the one about how the custom of putting an angel at the top of the tree started. It seems one Christmas Eve, Santa was really harried. Mrs. Claus had burned the Fruit Cakes, the Elves were upset at their HMO providers, and one of Santa’s sleigh runners was broken. Just then, the little angel he’d sent to bring home a Christmas tree walked in dragging the tree behind him, and said, “Where would you like me to put this tree, Santa ?” And that’s how the tradition of the angel at the top of the tree was born.

Groans are ok…BUT NO POUTING ! Remember…“You better not pout, you better not cry…”yeah…we do too much whining and not enough smiling the rest of the year. Christmas is a good smile connector.

Dick’s Details Quiz. All answers are in the current podcast.

1- Why didn’t John Dillinger make it to the big leagues ?

2- What do some Hong Kong wives like doing to to their husbands with their bare hands.

3- What do some people say about the U.S. Congress ?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

Time to ask you for your Christmas, or Hannukka, or Qwanza, or Solstice stories. They don’t have to be spectacular, or even well written. Just real. I like to post them on our blog at dick summer dot com. So, please let me know how you feel about the season. The address is dick@dicksummer.com

Christmas is a big time smile connector for me. It connects you with smiles…the kind on your face, and the kind on other people’s faces. There are plenty of things that dis-connect us every day…and every night. From little paper cut things…all the way up to lose your job things…and getting sick things…and even things like noticing that someone you care about isn’t smiling much when you’re together any more…and you know your someone is dis-connecting from you…and connecting with someone else.

Disconnections hurt. Sometimes they hurt hard. Worse than hitting your thumb with a hammer. But after a while, the hurts numb down…and you don’t feel anything anymore. You don’t feel anything about anything. Smiles get very scarce when that happens…when you dis-connect…from yourself.

Then Christmas comes along…and it connects us with the things that are good, and strong, and decent in all of us. I love Christmas music…my dad was a church musician…and I love the stories…and I love the presents…and the decorations…but it’s the connection that counts with me. The Christmas connection comes on schedule every year. But sometimes…other big time connections happen when you least expect them.

For example, we have an air show every June at the airfield where I keep my little plane. They had a WW2 B-17 bomber called The Memphis Belle there this year. It was the plane they made the movie about. I was checking it out, along with another Louie-Louie Generation guy. The other guy asked the plane’s pilot if he could sit in the cockpit. The pilot said the cockpit is off limits at an air show. But he noticed something in the guy’s eyes…or his voice…or something. I caught it too. The pilot said “is there any special reason you want to sit in the pilot seat?” The guy didn’t say anything for a few seconds…then he said, “My dad was a B-17 pilot. My mom was pregnant with me when he was killed. I never knew him. But I was just thinking that if I could sit where he might have been sitting when he died….The guy couldn’t finish the sentence. The pilot didn’t say anything either. He just stepped back and helped the guy into the seat. The guy’s hands were shaking when he touched the yoke and the throttles. It felt like I shouldn’t be watching. So I left. Connections.

I think the most important connection any body can make is a re-connection…to yourself. That’s what happened to a woman in a story from the Night Connections 3 personal audio cd. It’s called, “Taking A Breath.” That woman changed…right there in front of everybody in a restaurant. And everybody could see it. So we all looked away…It was instinctive. It was like we were to respecting…her modesty. It was just as if she were changing her dress…right there in front of us. And her new dress…instantly… made her look…so…beautiful.

“Taking A Breath.” is from the Night Connections 3 personal audio cd. If you like it, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Night Connections 3 icon on the home page.

So…Santa Claus is coming to town again. Please send your memories of however you celebrate this time of year to me. The address is dick@dicksummer.com I think those stories help all of us re-connect…to the stuff inside. Stuff that’s safe, and honest and real.

Who says Catherine Zeta Jones is a 9? Not me. And not Bernadette, my friend next door. We both know that while our guys leer and lust, they still come in OUR front doors … not hers. And that is what makes our Thanksgiving so much better than anyone else’s.

Bernadette doesn’t mind Randy’s fishing, as long as he cleans the darned things. And even Big Louie cannot take away the huge smiles she and I have when our guys eat whatever we have created as a feast … although in my case I have some help from a very nice gentleman named Alex. So (in spite of that wretched M.A.S. appeal) our daughter, daughter-in-law, sister in law, son and … wait for it … great grand-daughter will have all kinds of good things to share on that day.

Oh yes, Thanksgiving is just that … a day to say thank you to the powers that be, whoever or whatever He, She or It is. A day to hold up our heads and smile because we CAN hold up our heads … a day to see or feel that it is a day and you and I are in it at least one more time …

I was sitting in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room just now, thinking about Thanksgiving. Among other things, Thanksgiving is an anniversary for me. It was on Thanksgiving night a lot of years ago, that I started the Men Are Saints campaign on WNBC radio. I called it the M.A.S. appeal. Men are saints. The idea came from remembering a Thanksgiving watching what happened when my Lady Wonder Wench, and our daughter Kris, our Daughter in Law Brenda, and our Sister in law Beth were scurrying around preparing dinner, while the guys were…otherwise occupied. And I had an actual thought.

I realized that men are seldom given credit for our sensitivity, our intelligence and our selfless behavior. For example, here in the Northeast, Thanksgiving is usually celebrated on a cold day. So where do we men traditionally encourage our women to spend the day? Right. In the warmest room in the house. The kitchen. While we, on the other hand, in a manly display of selfless courage, throw ourselves in front of the tv screen to protect our loved ones from the terrible effects of the cathode rays that squirt out of the picture tube. And how much credit do we men get for that traditional self sacrifice? Right. None.

And think about this: How often have you seen a relatively innocent Louie-Louie Generation man at a raunchy bar go over to a woman he has never even met, and invite her to the safety and comfort of his very own apartment to get her out of that dangerous environment? And what reward do we get? Right again. None. But we soldier on as we always have, even in the face of this shameful lack of appreciation. That’s the basis for the M.A.S. appeal.

As you can imagine, the M.A.S. appeal is frequently not well received by certain people with more evolved levels of social sensitivity, and mostly higher voices, although Big Louie, his own bad self, the chief mustard cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation has tried to explain that it’s testosterone that causes the bad reputation that so many guys enjoy, and we’re therefore not responsible for our sometimes strange thought processes, and the things that we frequently can’t help doing.

Louie says a guy’s brain swims in this sea of testosterone, which absorbs some of the shocks of a guys life to which we are all exposed…like hitting a button on a radio and getting an unexpected blast of Yanni’s music, or getting hit in the head by a baseball, or being exposed to high levels of excess verbal communication. Testosterone, you will remember, is a preservative. And a preservative stops stuff from maturing. I seem to have a lot of testosterone, which protects me from many of the harmful effects of maturing…which is probably why the Men Are Saints campaign seemed like such a good idea to me in the first place.

1- What does Big Louie say is the second best part about the birth control pill?

2- What’s the hardest way I can think of to start a rumor?

3- What do American men and women do most often when they get together in leisure time?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

One of the things I’m thankful for is that we lucked out on neighbors. Lots of nice folks around here. My door bell rang a while ago, and it was my next door neighbor Randy. I call Randy, “The Fish Whisperer”… as in “here little fishy…come to pappa.” As soon as I opened the door, there was the distinct aroma that can only be acquired by a guy who has spent all day in an open boat with two other sweaty guys. He had a smile on his face that was so wide, his ears were drooping, and he was carrying two very substantial gift pieces of trout in a plastic bag. Randy likes the fishing as much as the eating. Maybe more. I don’t think he really cares how many fish he catches. He always says it’s called fishing, not catching.

Fortunately, Randy’s wife, Bernadette is a very understanding lady. She has no problem with Randy going off with the guys to spend a day fishing. Just as my Lady Wonder Wench doesn’t mind when I go down to the airport to fly my little plane. I usually tell her I need to fly the maneuvers the FAA requires to stay current for flying at night or in the clouds…and she gives me that wifely eye roll and smile that says…”Don’t hand me that, just go and have some fun.”

But when Bernadette or my Lady Wonder Wench go away…it’s a slightly different dynamic. Bernadette is going for a short trip next week. Now, Bernadette and Lady Wonder Wench are good friends. And they watch out for each other. I heard them talking the other day, and Lady W.W. was telling Bernadette that she’ll keep an eye open for women going in or out next door while Randy is home alone. They both laughed, because they both know that Randy doesn’t fool around.

But it’s an interesting perspective. It’s almost like they were tapping into the male fantasy world. Think about it. What a fantasy. This imaginary, lust crazed Catherine Zeta Jones look alike sees Bernadette leave, and leaps on poor defenseless Randy’s bones. I hate to tell you, but even though Randy is a reasonably nice looking young guy, it almost never happens that way in real life. Actually, in real life, on the Summer sexy scale, if you will agree that my Lady Wonder Wench is a 10, and Catherine Zeta Jones is a 9, then Bernadette comes in there very comfortably with a solid 8 plus. So why aren’t Randy and I the ones who get worried when the girls are on the town? I guess either we’re too dumb, too self confident, or simply have better things to do. We’re a couple of comfortable guys.

And I am thankful for my very comfortable, and very happy life. I’ve been lucky. Lots of people…aren’t. Like the woman in the story called, “Just Enough” from the Night Connections 2 personal audio CD. She still goes to work every day at that little airport. She knows all the guys. When they come in to refuel their planes, she always says…please be careful. Most of them give her a little hug when she says that, because they all know what happened. I’ve even seen a few tears leaking out from behind some very tough guy’s Ray Bans…when they smile and say…sure. I’ll be careful.

If you like “Just Enough”, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, you can download it from the Night Connections 2 icon on the home page.

I’m thankful for my very good life. Which probably proves that you don’t have to be terribly smart to have a good life. But you should be smart enough to be really thankful, and more than just on one day a year. And one of the many things that I’m thankful for is the fact that the Fish Whisperer who lives next door, is comfortable showing up late at night… fresh from a fishing trip…with a big dumb grin on his face, wearing a stinky sweatshirt and jeans…and carrying a couple of big chunks of recently wiggling fish. He’s no saint, but he’s a good guy. And between us, we have a couple of wives… who think we’re still sexy enough so that they can at least kid about having to be on constant guard against fantasy ladies who look suspiciously like a lust crazed Catherine Zeta Jones.

Dick just doesn’t know where to look. There are mailboxes; you just have to go to the old malls, the ones with all those marvelous small stores that sell stuff like “records” and “books” and “handkerchiefs” and simple “ice cream cones” …

I know, that dates me, but I like those things and we have one of those malls not far from here. ‘Course, the big problem is, how do you play a record? But I can read real books and drip real ice cream onto my shirt. And the people actually smile at you and no one is rushing around looking fevered.

I don’t suppose that mall will be there for too long, but while it is, I enjoy it. I am, after all, a true Louie-Louie Generation Lass and I remember the good things.

Although I must admit that Superman would find it really difficult to look for a phone booth … but hey, he can still change in a revolving door …

Holy Batman ! I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, rubbing my feet, and drinking coffee, trying to get over the uncomfortable suspicion that either the Grinch stole our mailboxes so we couldn’t send Christmas Cards, or some bright light at the Post office Department decided that they could save lots of money delivering mail if they didn’t collect it any more. It looks like our mailboxes have now gone the way of outdoor phone booths, rooftop TV antennas, hula hoops, lava lamps, and mini skirts.

I’ve been rubbing my feet because I was walking a lot today getting to a meeting in New York City for my day job. I meant to drop off a letter at the post office down the block from my house on the way to taking the Amtrak train but it was too early in the morning for the coffee to kick in, and I forgot. Early mornings are that way for me. I have an old fashioned alarm clock that goes off with a noise somewhere between an arriving locomotive and a dive bombing seagull. It’s awful, but I like it better than those new clocks that wake you up with soft music and a gentle whisper. I can’t take hypocracy early in the morning.

I found the letter I needed to mail hiding in my jacket pocket when I pulled out my train ticket. “No big deal,” I thought. “I’ll just drop it in a mailbox at Penn Station.” I live in a small town now, and we don’t have any mailboxes here. But ever since I was a kid growing up in New York, there was always a mail box at Penn Station. So it was a bit of a shock to see that it’s gone.

Still…no big deal. I figured I’d drop the letter into some mail box on my way to the meeting. It was about a 2 mile walk. Lots of street corners where there used to be mail boxes. All gone. You may wonder why I didn’t take a subway. That’s because it was morning rush hour. You don’t want to ride a subway in New York during rush hour. Last year, 6 million fewer New Yorkers didn’t ride the subway at rush hour, and nobody noticed.

So I started walking, and walking, and walking. No mailboxes.

Mailboxes are as American as baseball. As important as the strikeout and the homerun. As vital to our way of life as hot dogs and beer. In a 21st century world far too full of neutered, mangled men and worn out women, we know we can always look forward to the topper to short, the lunge, the flip, the spin at second, the stretch and the scoop at first…the dastardly double play. And until now, we took for granted the small pleasure of pulling down the squeaky lid, cramming a fat envelope into that little toaster slice sized opening, pushing it shut, and opening it again to see to it that our envelope was down there in the belly of the beast, ready to take its journey across the fruited plain, sometimes all the way from sea to shining sea.

I should have seen this coming. There are no more subway tokens in New York now either. And no comic books on the news stands, and no Good Humor trucks. Life is getting tougher and tougher in New York. In some neighborhoods, they’re selling the bible under the counter. And they have alternate side of the street muggings.

2- Who doesn’t like it when I spit across the table and blow my nose on the tablecloth?

3- Why haven’t the Aliens REALLY not contacted us ?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

Traffic in New York is like no other city in the country. And like most big cities, they have to cut back on expenses. I have a hunch that in New York’s public high schools, the driving teachers have to share their cars with the sex ed teachers to save money. And I think that would create a somewhat confusing kind of instruction. For example:

Never blow in your partner’s ear while he or she is looking for toll money. Close your eyes to enjoy what’s going on only when you have come to a complete stop. When the CAR comes to a complete stop that is. Never touch your lover’s favorite erogenous zone while she is asking for directions. Guys don’t have to worry about that because we never ask for directions. Never un-hook anything while your partner is trying to switch lanes on a super highway. Always remember to remove your seatbelts. And possibly most important…don’t assume that just because a woman approaches your car and asks for money in Times Square, don’t assume she’s a parking meter maid.

There’s a story in the Lovin Touch personal audio CD about parking meters…sort of. Sometimes writing a story like that is like spying on yourself. I used to live pretty much alone inside my own head…then I met my Lady, and I knew I needed to bring her in to live there with me…at all costs. There were huge costs involved. There were lots of times when it felt like I was feeding my last quarter into my parking meter. That’s why every morning now…and for a very long time…I have to reach over and actually touch her smile…to be sure that it doesn’t disappear.

“Parking Meter Life” is from the Lovin Touch personal audio cd. If you like it, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Lovin Touch icon on the home page.

The poet says, “The moving hand of time has writ, and having writ, moves on.” But you know what? Sometimes I get lucky, and the moving hand of time gives me a nice back rub in the process. The mail boxes are gone, but Email is easier and faster anyway. My Lady Wonder Wench’s smile doesn’t disappear from my pillow in the morning. Baseball’s spring training is coming again. And in the end…no matter how often I watch the video…the Grinch never does manage to steal Christmas.

I don’t mind when there’s no electricity … we get to use candles and the fireplace. Our Dave and Julie and Kris and Wes had to do the same, although I don’t somehow think they thought it was as nice as I did. I’m older ….And the weather is just trying to catch up on itself. I remember cold, snowy Thanksgivings even if the “younger generation” doesn’t. I suppose we are affecting climate change in some ways as the pundits howl about, but not really. This old earth has gone through climactic changes for millions of years (despite what creationists think) and it’s just time for the next layer of change. Oh, we may be hurrying it a bit but we aren’t causing the whole thing to happen. We are simply part of it.

Do I sound fatalistic? Well, yeah, but then I won’t be here in the next hundred thousand years or so. And I won’t have to live with all those changes. But it is certainly going to be wildly interesting to see what happens in the near future. More snow? I remember streets so snow clogged the plows couldn’t even leave their barns. No busses running, no cars … and certainly no trains. In November, lads and lasses. Starting in early October. I know, I know, I grew up in Boston and what do you expect from the frozen north? So it may well happen again. And it might be less than marvelous … but it won’t be awful. Heck, I lived through it …

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, thinking…I’d better put up a new blog and podcast. But because of the power outages of the last week caused by the snow up in Massachusetts where my son David posts the podcasts, the Willie Nelson podcast didn’t go up till Thursday night, and I think you’re going to like it…so I’m going to give it a few days more up at the top of the podcast list.

Meantime…it’s about time to start asking you to send your annual Christmas letters. My Email address is dick@dicksummer.com, or you can just tag them on to the “Comments” section under this blog. I love hearing about your Christmas memories, and your New Year hopes. And I think the rest of our little “huddle” does too. If you’re a new member of the group, these don’t need to be elaborate, carefully composed letters. But they do need to be real. As in honest. And it helps if they come more from the heart than from the head.

I’ll start you off with one of mine. I met my Lady Wonder Wench in Boston. We worked at the same radio station. When she showed up in my studio, it felt like she strapped a couple of rockets onto my life, and lit the fuse. When we started out, she was my secretary, and I was her, “Boss.” Somewhere along the line…that line of command seems to have changed. But like most guys, I like to growl around a little, and take command, because, I AM THE GUY. That usually happens when we take a long car trip…even when it’s in her car…which is usually the case, because her car has hardly any dents in it.

There’s a story line thread here. When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn, I had a dream about driving down the West Side Drive in Manhattan, with a beautiful woman sitting next to me in a car, going to work at my favorite radio station, WNEW. Lady Wonder Wench was there the first morning I got to take that drive for real. She also drove home with me a lot of years later, the night I got fired at WNBC. That was the night I told her I was going to quit radio and open a hypnotherapy practice. She knew that meant going from a comfortable New York Radio guy’s salary to lots of weeks with no income at all, till things got rolling. She just smiled up at me, and said, “We can do it.” And we did.

She brought up children with me. Several of them, as grown ups, still consider her to be their best friend and most trusted advisor. She’s certainly my best friend and advisor, and it will be that way when and if I ever manage to grow up.

She flies right seat with me in our little airplane…she runs the radios…and helps with the navigation…as in…”Shouldn’t we be over THERE ?” She puts up with my plastic potato pop gun battles with my buddy Randy next door. And when I grew a mustache the week she took a trip with our daughter Kris and a couple of other lady friends…and I went to pick her up at the airport…and I pulled my hat down over my eyes, put on my Ray Ban shades, and lurked…and when she showed up…she didn’t recognize me. So I sneaked up on her and gave her a big kiss…and she started to swing her handbag at me…then figured out what was going on, and practically fell down laughing.

We’re coming up on another Christmas now, and I haven’t found a suitable present for her yet. I started looking for one around last Valentine’s day. I remember our first Christmas together…she was standing with me on a snow covered Boston Common. Boston outlawed Christmas celebrations in the 1600s, as you may know. But Boston makes up for it with the beautiful display they put up every year on the Common now.

Boston Common is a park right in the middle of the city. I was doing a broadcast from our radio station’s trailer that year. There were lights on every tree in the park…and a light blanket of snow on the ground. She was so beautiful. For quite a few Christmases after that…all the way back then, I wasn’t supposed to love her. So she stood alone, apart from her family and friends, because that’s the only way she felt she could stand with me. But ever since that time passed, she has stood beside me. She stood beside me singing in my Dad’s Christmas Choir…and she stood beside me on the day he died. She stood beside me when I was out of work on a pretty tough Christmas Eve a few years ago.

I’m looking for the kind of present that I know will make her close her eyes, and lift her left shoulder up to her ear like she does when something special happens. I like it when she does that. And Santa Claus is really coming to town again pretty soon, so I better get busy looking. I like Santa…and the fact that “He sees you when you’re sleeping, and knows when you’re awake.” It’s nice to know that he’s always paying attention to you. That’s kind of rare these days isn’t it?

So that’s my first Christmas story for this year. It’s not poetic. And Santa might frown on some of it, I know. But it’s honest, and it’s from the heart. I guess you could sum it up by simply saying, love comes when you least expect it…even when you do your best to avoid it. Sometimes it just…starts…on a very cold Christmas Eve night…and you find that it keeps you warm for a long, long, long, very long time.